


cosmic love

by aceofdiamonds



Series: is that such a stretch of the imagination? [13]
Category: Gossip Girl, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, F/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some outside perspectives of harry and blair and how the two very different worlds have come together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cosmic love

**Author's Note:**

> the timeline for this is getting a bit hand-wavy. i threw everyone into this, well, almost everyone. i might do this again, tbh. apparently the one thing that is more fun than writing harry and blair is writing other people's thoughts on harry and blair. there are a few side romances but i didn't feel they were prominent enough to include in the tags. title is from cosmic love by florence and the machine.

 

  
  


ginny.

 

Look, Ginny isn’t playing the ex-girlfriend card here. She has her own life, she’s doing great, she and Harry had an amicable, mutual, easy break-up a couple of years ago because they just weren’t staying together for the right reasons anymore. No, she’s saying this because she’s part of Harry’s family, ex or not, and family have the right to say these things. 

So Ginny’s perfectly in the right to say that it’s fucking strange that Harry disappears from a memorial service, hides out in Italy for three months, and comes home so in love with an American woman who, according to Hermione and Ron who met her the other day, is as far from Harry’s type as You-Know Who. 

It’s not that Ginny’s jealous and yes, she knows that by saying that she completely negates the denial, it’s just — it’s confusing, alright?

And then she meets Blair and she sees how wrong everyone has been because Blair is perfect for Harry. She’s snappy and she’s fussy and she’s kind and she’s beautiful — so on the surface, at a glance, she might seem like a strange choice for Harry, but Ginny likes to think she knows Harry better than most people and she knows Blair is who he needs. She’s from the outside, she hasn’t grown up with the image of a child hero in her eyes; she’s got her own troubles, her own ways of understanding, and Ginny doesn’t want to call it too early but she won’t be surprised if Harry ends up marrying her. Like she said, she knows him, and that look on his face as he leans back against the counter and watches Blair talk to Ron tells her enough. 

Ginny first meets Blair at a Weasley family gathering because when are they not having one of those. She can’t help but feel Harry threw Blair in at the deep end, though -- even though he’s stayed by her side, Ginny’s part of the family and even she can see how to a newcomer they can be overwhelming. 

So she makes her way over the Blair and introduces herself. “Hi, I’m Ginny.” 

“Blair,” she replies, taking her outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” and she doesn’t say _ I’ve heard a lot about you _ even though from the way Harry glances over at them from his conversation with Dad that that is probably true.

“It’s crowded in here,” Ginny says, stepping closer to Blair as Victoire, Teddy and Roxy blur past her. “Want to see the garden?” 

“That would be great.”

When they’re outside they stand in silence for a while, watching a trail of gnomes make their way back into the garden after this morning’s degnoming. Ginny watches Blair look at them with narrowed eyes, working out what the hell’s going on, and Ginny feels a surge of respect for her. It can’t be easy getting thrust into their life. 

“I’ve never been to New York,” she says after a bit. 

And Blair lights up at that. “You should come over. Harry said he’s not sure of the range for Apparating but you could get a plane, couldn’t you? Or are you all averse to our transport?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Ginny laughs. “One of my teammates went on a train once and it crashed, so, how’s that for a bad omen?” 

Blair smiles at that, easy and open. “Your dad was telling me about his work -- it’s fascinating the way these two different spheres have co-existed and the interest that wizards have with -- Muggles?”

“My dad’s an anomaly,” Ginny says. “No offence, but Muggle Studies wasn’t my favourite subject at Hogwarts.” 

“That’s fair,” Blair shrugs. “I was never one for fairy tales about witches and dragons.”

“Must be odd, then, being here.” 

“A little. It’s not so different from home, really.” 

Ginny considers this, considers the way Blair views the world, what she’s learned from snippets from Ron and Hermione. She thinks that Blair’s right -- that for Blair, someone who’s always ready to bend the world to fit her needs, that magic isn’t so different after all. 

“Quidditch is different,” she offers, grinning when Blair rolls her eyes.

“Ron seems to talk about nothing else,” Blair replies. “He’s eager for me to learn the sport.” 

“Somehow I can’t see you on a broom,” and Blair doesn’t deny this, just pulls her jacket around her and watches a gnome burrow under the wall. “But if you ever want to see a good team play -- not the Cannons, they’re an embarrassment to the league -- but I play for the Harpies, you should come along.” 

“Harry told me.” Blair dips her head. “I’d like that, Ginny.”

They go back inside when Mum shouts that lunch is ready and they find seats together. Harry catches Ginny’s eye across half a dozen heads and Ginny grins, slips him a discreet thumbs-up. She knows he’s not looking for her approval or her blessing but she gives it and then she turns and listens to Blair’s conversation with Teddy, all of which seems to be based on the fact that Blair is American. She snorts into her plate at Blair’s reply -- yeah, she likes Blair, stop acting like she shouldn’t. 

  
  


.

  
  


serena. 

 

For as long as she can remember, Blair has been first in line when Serena had needed a shoulder to cry on, or a bed to sneak into, or a hand to hold. Blair has been there for Serena for forever and so the least she can do when Blair appears in her apartment, quiet and broken, is to drop everything. 

“Blair!” She leads Blair to the couch and follows her down, pulling her against her. Blair has always been so small -- everyone forgets that when she fills the room. “What’s happened?”

Blair just shrugs, sighs against Serena’s shoulder. “It’s stupid,” she says, doing that self-deprecating tiny voice when everything’s a lot less stupid and a lot more serious than she wants to let on. 

“I bet it isn’t. Come on, B,” Serena jiggles the arm around Blair gently, encouragingly. “Tell me.” She would bring up the foundation of the Non-Judgemental-Breakfast-Club at this point as they always have in the past but one of them is gone and another is happily married with little to no problems, ever, and so Serena holds down the comfort by herself. “B, it can’t be that bad. Come on.”

Blair sighs again. “I’m sick of Harry and I living in two different countries. It was only supposed to be a temporary thing while we both got settled in our careers but it’s been too long now.” She stops here, takes a breath. “With the holiday season, I’ve just -- it’s been lonely.” 

Here’s the thing: after Chuck Serena had been worried about Blair. She hadn’t spoken to anyone for days at a time, she would hole herself up in her apartment with a stack of old movies she knows all the words to, and she when she did make an appearance she would be quiet and jumpy and Serena hadn’t known what to do. Then she had disappeared off to Italy for a few months and that had been fine -- sure, Serena missed her, but getting out of the city was the best thing for Blair and so she would phone her every week and they would talk about everything but Chuck Bass and it had been  _ fine _ , good even. 

After a month or two of this the phone calls changed. Blair started laughing a little more, she would tease Serena about things she hadn’t touched in months, and then she had told Serena that she met a guy, _no, it’s not another Louis, S, this one’s different,_ and immediately Serena’s mind had been screaming at her to tell Blair to be careful, to watch herself; there’s a limit to how many times your heart can be broken. 

But Blair had come home eventually, sunnier and sharper than she had been before she left, and with this amazing new guy in tow. This is where Serena believes everything Blair has said -- she knows this has been said a hundred times before but Harry really is good for Blair, he really is funny and kind and full of a dark past that has given an edge that he and Blair have in common. He’s great, honestly, and Serena really likes him -- she couldn’t be more thrilled that they’re engaged, and so here is where she struggles.

“Blair,” she starts, searching for the right word, but what is the right word when your fiancee is a wizard who has a career playing a magical sport in Britain. What can Serena offer to that? Well, strange as it may be, it’s a relationship at the end of the day, and Serena knows about them. “I’m amazed you’ve made it this long without breaking down.” Blair mumbles something indistinguishable at that. “You and Harry have talked about this, right?” 

“We talked about it over Christmas but then January started and the whole thing snowballed -- I had Eleanor’s show to run, remember, and Harry had a charity tournament and now it’s April and things are the same.” 

“You can’t go on like this, Blair. You both have to pick and you need to do it sooner rather than later.” Serena fiddles with the engagement ring on Blair’s finger, turning Blair’s hand so she can tangle their fingers together. 

“Harry comes home whenever he can -- I don’t go more than three days without seeing him and we talk all the time --” 

“B,” Serena interrupts gently. “You need to talk to him.”

“You’re right,” Blair agrees, slumping against Serena’s side. “Thanks, S. Sorry for barging in on you like this.” 

“It’s fine. I was just working,” and she laughs at the look Blair gives her. “I  _ was _ . Nate’s been giving me more responsibilities on The Spectator. He says since I’ve been there almost as long as him I deserve to have more of a say in the running of it.” 

“While he skives off with Autumn and Sam, you mean,” Blair says, grinning. “Did he show you the picture of the three of them at the penguin enclosure in Central Park?” 

“On a slow day I’m getting ten pictures, at  _ least _ .”

“Who would’ve thought Nate would be the first of us to settle down?”

“You’re not doing so bad,” Serena points out, and neither is she, actually. 

“Hey, I don’t have any mini-mes yet,” Blair says defensively. “So, tell me about these new responsibilities.”

Serena reaches for her laptop and the notebook and pen that fell to the floor when Blair appeared. “Well, I’ve been doing a few fashion edits, a couple of lifestyle pieces, and I’m thinking of starting an advice column.” 

“Busy,” Blair says, approving. “Well you’ve given me good advice today -- I’ll recommend you to Nate.” 

“Thanks, Blair.” Serena pulls Blair into another hug, holding tighter when Blair huffs in annoyance and tries to wriggle free. “Talk to Harry, okay, B?”

“I will. I promise. Now let go of me. I have things to do.  _ Serena _ .” 

  
  


.

  
  


oliver. 

 

Oliver’s having a bad week. Puddlemere’s lost their last three games, he thinks there’s an owl living in his fireplace, and Marcus hasn’t spoken to him in three weeks. He’s not upset about any one of them more than another, it’s all pretty even -- if anything he’s mostly concerned about the owl, he’s not sure what’ll happen if someone Floos him. But yes, the Marcus thing is grating at the back of his mind, too, he just doesn’t know what he’s done. 

So he goes to Harry’s wedding feeling far too melancholy for the occasion. He had been a little surprised at the invitation but since Harry joined the Tornados they’ve been seeing each other a lot more and he’s never met her but apparently Harry’s marrying a Muggle and he’s never been to a Muggle wedding before, apart from one of his neighbour’s when he was six, so he’s interested to see what they do differently. 

They don’t do much differently, he finds out five minutes after he arrives. It’s in a classy marquee in a patch of countryside; the whole thing’s a bit fancy for him but half the guest look like they belong there and the other half look like they’re trying their best and so he joins them. 

“You look lost,” someone says to him as he’s trying to find a seat. 

“I am,” Oliver admits, turning to see a man standing behind him dressed in a very sharp suit and a smirk that reminds Oliver all too much of Marcus. “Are you with the bride?” 

“That’s a technicality, “ he says. “I didn’t RSVP,” he adds. “Blair does  _ not _ like those who don’t RSVP.” 

Now Oliver can’t remember if he RSVP’d or if he just mentioned in passing to Harry that he’ll be there and no, he won’t be needing a plus one. “I don’t think I did either,” and then he huffs a laughter at the joking sharp intake of breath the man does, eyes widening with horror. “Do you want to find a seat?” 

The man’s name is Carter, he’s known Blair since school, and he’s got the loudest whisper Oliver has ever heard. He keeps up a string of commentary throughout the ceremony, passing various judgements on Blair’s side of aisle, making a few backhanded compliments towards the Weasleys and the rest of Harry’s side. Oliver chews at his lip until he draws blood, his laughter constantly on the verge of bursting out of him. 

Carter quiets long enough to hear Blair and Harry say their vows and then, as soon as the ceremony breaks up and the seats are cleared away for the space to become a dance floor, he jerks his head away from the crowd, his intentions clear by the hand on Oliver’s leg. 

Oliver hesitates for a second, thinks of Marcus and whatever the hell’s going on with them, and then he’s following Carter through the guests and to the first secluded spot they can find.

“So you’re one of those wizards?” Carter murmurs when Oliver casts a Silencing Charm around their general area. They’re basically behind a bush, it won’t help them much if anyone decides to walk in their direction, but at this point Oliver doesn’t really care. 

“Yeah,” Oliver replies, pressing a kiss to Carter’s cheek before moving to his mouth. “Is that alright?” 

“Could make things interesting,” Carter says, eyes sharp, before he fits a hand at Oliver’s neck and drags him in. 

As soon as they’re finished here Oliver needs to find Blair and congratulate her on her wedding as well as thanking her for introducing him to Carter Baizen. God bless the union of Harry and Blair, Oliver thinks, as Carter slides his hand into Oliver’s trousers. What a fucking day.

 

.

 

eleanor.

 

When Eleanor had sat on a pew while her daughter got married she thinks she knew even back then, before the video and the runaway bride, that that wouldn’t be the only time. God, she had hoped she was wrong, but then Louis had shown his true colours in next to no time and that was Blair, twenty one and already a broken marriage behind her. 

With Chuck. Well, Eleanor’s known the boy since he was four and eating sand out the sandbox; yes she might love him in some way but she’s known that he’s trouble. The Basses make their promises and they turn on their sleazy charm, but at the end of the day they’re all as vile as each other. Blair had seemed surprised when Eleanor hadn’t said i told you so after that one ended in the messiest divorce the Upper East Side had seen in years.

Aged twenty five, wedding number three, and this one feels right. Eleanor had worried about Blair rushing into it the way she had with Louis but if those weddings had taught her daughter anything it’s that time doesn’t mean a thing when you know, and this time Eleanor thinks she’s got it right. 

She sits in the front row of a marquee in the English countryside, surrounded by wizards and witches and who knows what else from fairy tales. To hear she was getting a wizard for an in-law was a shock, she can’t lie, but Cyrus has run into this with open arms and, well, it makes a change from the usual dullness that can come with weddings. 

On the other side of the aisle sits Harry’s family which is mostly made up of the sprawling number of Weasleys. They’re a kind lot, a little too kind and welcoming at times, but from what Blair’s told her they’ve been through a lot these past few years and they love Harry, that’s clear.  

“Is it just me or does that kid’s hair keep changing colour?” Nate leans forward to mutter into Eleanor’s ear. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” she whispers back, shooting a smile to the boy in question. He sticks out his tongue and wriggles his ears till they turn into rabbit’s and then back again when the woman beside him pats him on the knee warningly. “A woman told me earlier that I had a bad case of Wackspurts or something ridiculous like that,” and that starts off Dorota beside her and Nate sniggering behind her. “Shh —" she admonishes as the familiar music starts up, played by the same woman with long blonde hair and a dress inappropriate for, not just a wedding, but public. “It’s starting.”  

She turns to watch Blair walk down the aisle with Cyrus on her arm. Her dress is simple, an off-white midi length with an elegant bow around her waist; a combination of Eleanor and Blair’s designs. Eleanor smiles at her daughter, gets a beam in return, and then she looks back at Harry who has a look on his face like he can’t believe his luck.

When Blair reaches Harry she kisses Cyrus’s cheek and then turns to face Harry. Harry leans forward to whisper something and Blair laughs, the sound loud and happy. Harry winks at her, reaches for her hand, and Eleanor sits back in her seat. Yes. This is the one. 

  
  


.

  
  


george.

 

It’s always a little different at Christmas now with new additions popping up every year as more and more people become part of the Weasleys. Victoire had been the first, Louis following not long after, and Percy bringing Audrey and Molly the next year. The in-laws have trickled in, babies appearing every few months, and it’s always interesting seeing how Mum will manage to squeeze everyone around the table.

It’s Blair’s first year this time and although she’s visited a couple of times before it’s never been everyone all at once, the kids hyped up on presents and sugar, the rest of the family buzzed on a couple of glasses of Ogden’s. George doesn’t blame her for the flash of wide-eyed panic as Harry had led her into the room. 

“There’s a spare seat here, Blair,” Angelina had helpfully called over when everyone had swarmed to the table, playing musical chairs for a seat. “Leave Harry to fend off the kids and come over here.” 

She does, sending Angelina and George a grateful smile as she squirms her way over to the space they’ve created between them. “Thanks, Angelina.”

“It’s something else, isn’t it?” Angelina grins as Mum starts waving her wand to distribute the countless number of plates.

“I thought I was prepared,” Blair says, passing along cutlery and glasses as they’re handed down the line. “But -- wow.”

“Christmas at yours a little different? Harry said your dad lives in France.”

“Mm. This couldn’t be more different if it tried,” and then Blair laughs, catching Harry’s eye across the table when he drops a bowl of potatoes right into his lap. “I’m beginning to like chaos.” 

“Look, Mum takes more care with the in-laws’ jumpers,” George says when the children are squirrelled away doing Merlin knows what and the adults have congregated to the living room for another glass or two of Firewhiskey. 

Ron narrows his eyes as he inspects first Angelina’s, his own, and then Hermione’s. “That’s true,” he agrees, “but look,” and he pulls at a thread on Hermione’s shoulder. “Harry and Hermione’s are slipping, though.” 

George hadn’t even been counting them in the in-laws, honestly. 

“Mrs Weasley,” Harry pipes up, catching George’s eye and grinning. “You don’t have to put more care into Blair’s just because she’s in fashion.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mum argues. “I put the same amount of attention into everyone’s.”

“They’re very comfy,” Blair says in support, nudging Harry’s stomach when he pretends to inspect her cuff. “I love the colour of mine.”

Mum preens at this because she always loves a compliment and Harry’s right, she  _ did _ fret about Blair being a fashion designer. “Thank you, dear. You know, it’s quite hard to come up with colours that match everyone and don’t clash with their hair.” 

“Never stopped you giving me maroon,” Ron mutters just loud enough for the room to hear. 

“It brings out your eyes, Ron,” she says, not stopping the little smile when everyone laughs at that. “But by all means, I can stop your jumper next year - heaven knows I have plenty to get through.” 

“No, don’t stop,” Ron yelps. 

“He doesn’t want to be left out,” Angelina laughs, pulling her own blue jumper over her head. Mum likes to factor in their jobs and their hobbies when it comes to colours as well; when George had told her about Angelina signing with the Arrows, the first thing she said after congratulations was “what colour are their robes?” 

She’s done the same with Harry this year, he sees, with a slighter dark blue of his own to match the Tornados. George has the same variant of green he has every year. He likes that Mum has continued to include the identifying G on the front even though there isn’t any risk of getting him confused for someone else anymore -- then again, everyone still gets a letter so maybe it’s not as special as he thinks. 

George drops his arm around Angelina’s shoulders, pulling her closer against him. She follows him, her head resting on his shoulder, and George counts every piece of luck that he can find that he still has this sprawling family with enough jumpers and letters to fill an alphabet or a rainbow. 

  
  


.

  
  


dorota.

 

Miss Blair comes back from her long vacation happier than Dorota has ever seen her, and yes, she’s counting that time she was with Mr Lonely Boy. She is suspiciously bright, asking after Vanya and the children, producing presents for them from her handbag, and sitting down in the living room without barking four orders before. 

“These aren’t from Italy,” Dorota says after she has thanked her and told her she looks well. The compliment isn’t false, like she may have said in the past -- she really looks glowing. Dorota leans in a little to peer at the size of her pupils; Vanya has heard many stories about drugs and their many effects, but Blair's pupils are normal-sized. 

“No, I visited England for a couple of weeks before I came home,” Blair says, and then she gestures for Dorota to come closer, like they’re fancy spies in the old movies Blair loves to watch. “I want you to meet someone, okay, Dorota? He hasn’t met my mother yet so we have to keep it quiet.” 

Dorota smiles. “All this hush hush he must be someone very special.” 

“That’s private,” Blair says, frowning for a moment. “Alright, wait here and I’ll go up and get him --” 

“He’s upstairs? But I just came from up there and the door hasn’t --” and Blair smiles again and tosses back her hair, “I’ll be right back.” 

From Dorota’s first impression Harry Potter seems like a very nice man. He smiles and greets Dorota like she’s someone he’s known for a long time, asking after her family that he’s heard so much about. Blair nudges him at this, like he’s spilled too much about that heart Dorota knows she has, and he grins at her in return, thrilled to be here with her. But his eyes roam around the room like he’s constantly waiting for something to leap out from behind the china cabinet and he turns his head over his shoulder at almost every noise, sinking down easily onto the couch when Blair leads him to it.

“He’s troubled,” she blurts out when Blair follows her into the kitchen to get coffee. “That scar on his hand.” She frowns. “He’s not dangerous, is he, Miss Blair?” 

“He’s been through a lot,” she says, and leaves it at that. “Apart from the scars, what do you think?” 

“I think he is a good choice, Miss Blair. I can see he makes you happy.”

At this Blair steps forward and pulls Dorota into a hug, a whispered _thank you_ at her neck, and then she's going back into the living room with a, "Harry, you won't believe this."

  
  


.

  
  


fleur.

 

Blair drops down onto the couch with a groan, disrupting Honey from her perch on the arm. She hisses half-heartedly as she curls up under the coffee table instead, eyes blinking slowly at Blair. 

“Please mind the cat,” Fleur pleads. “Teddy’s obsessed with her well-being -- he can tell when she’s been upset.” 

“Teddy’s too knowing for his own good,” Blair says but she crouches down to run a hand over Honey’s back, nodding in satisfaction when Honey purrs. “You know what he said to me the other day? That cats are good for stress and that when the baby comes it’ll be beneficial to have one in the house.”

“He  _ really _ wants you and Harry to get one,” Fleur says. 

“This is Dan’s fault.”

Fleur nods. “Of course it is,” waving away Blair’s huff at her placating tone. “So, how are you getting on? How many weeks are you?” 

“Thirteen,” Blair sighs. “So I have no excuse at all for being so lazy already.” 

“Hey, you're pregnant, that's excuse enough,” and anyway, even in her relaxed state, Fleur sees Blair as one of the busiest people she's ever met. She's always running around New York, directing the fashion world into something a little more Blair, a little more sophisticated. When she's over here in England she is always aware of the phone by her side, always creating ideas, suggesting things for Fleur, for Angelina, for the kids. 

“How's Victoire and Dominique? Are they out with Bill?”

With the nicer weather creeping in Bill has been taking a few days off work here and there to take the children down to the sea. He speaks about freedom and fresh air and on the days Fleur goes she watched him tip his head back and breathe in the air that for so long was past their protective wards. When you lose someone in a war it clings to your everyday life even years afterwards. Bill breathes in his air and Fleur paddles in the water that is always too cold for comfort and they play with their children because they can and because they always want to. 

Fleur loves her home, her cottage by the sea.

“No,” she says now. “It’s nap time.” 

“I’m impressed, Fleur,” Blair teases. “Both down at once? Where’s your medal?”

Fleur pretends to fish it out from under her neckline, flashing it at Blair. “You have all of this to look forward to.”

“Hey, that sounded negative, Fleur, you know I can’t deal with negatives.” 

Fleur loves Blair. She loves every one of the Weasleys and their extended family, she does, but Blair had flown in and granted everyone a reprieve -- here was someone who hadn’t lived through the war, here was someone who knew what it was like to have your choices ripped away, here was someone who knew what it was like to fight, albeit it in different ways from the rest of the people in the room, but Blair was someone who was different and who was eager to learn everything she could and who was funny, almost unbearably so at times, especially when Fleur was pregnant with Dominique and going to the bathroom fifteen times a day as it was. 

For Fleur, life in France was a world away from her new life in Britain. She uses Blair, this woman from America but with half a family and a whole lot of her heart in France, to bridge the gap between the two countries, the two different parts of her. They discuss the books they’ve read, what films they love, what they would do with the country if they could run it for a day, what it’s like to have a husband everyone takes a second glance at in the street, what it’s like to care about appearance in a world which doesn’t care so much for it, how to make cheesecake without spoiling the base, girls they went to school with and what they hope they’re doing now, good and bad, what cut of dress will be best for this or for that, what to do when the nightmares won’t stop but you don’t want to tell anyone you’re still having them sometimes because it feels like everyone else is fine -- they talk for hours and hours and Merlin, Fleur has always loved her life over here but with Blair this is what she feels is a best friend. 

“I have some ice-cream left over from last night,” Fleur remembers suddenly, filing away the qualms Blair has about her impending motherhood for another time. “Do you want some?” 

“What flavour is it?” she asks first, always fussy, and then nods and smiles at the vanilla. “Harry says I’m boring for always choosing vanilla;  _ I’m _ never the one having to Vanish stains from my shirt after I spill chocolate down my front.” 

“Bill’s the same,” Fleur says, Summoning the bowls with a flick of her wand and doling out scoops with another. “Dominique too. Victoire appreciates the simplicity of vanilla.” 

“Victoire’s got the right idea about life,” Blair replies. Honey leaps back onto the couch and hesitantly approaches Blair. When Fleur carries the bowls over she sniffs the bottom of them and then settles down in the middle cushion, content with the tranquility of the room.

“Come see me in New York next week, okay?” Blair says as she's leaving. “Bring the kids -- Serena’s been asking after them.” 

“We’ll be there,” Fleur promises.

  
  


.

 

nate. 

 

“I never saw Blair ending up with a jock,” Nate says one afternoon while hanging out with Harry. This is something he’s been thinking about for a while, actually, and he feels he should bring it up, if only for his own purposes. “Did she know this about you when she married you?” 

“I’m not a jock,” Harry says automatically. “What's a jock?”

“Someone who’s into sport,” Nate says, and then laughs when Harry ignores this in favour of the game. “Someone who  _ plays _ sport,” he adds, and Harry doesn't dismiss this.

“We don't use jock in Britain.” 

“Our two countries are very different,” Nate agrees. “You, for instance, drive on the wrong side of the road.” 

“I don’t drive at all,” Harry says absent-mindedly, concentrating instead on the hockey match. “And neither do you, Nate, so, terrible example.” 

“No one drives in Manhattan.” Then he adds, “And you can just use your broom, can’t you?” He can’t resist tacking on, “Do you drive on the wrong side of the sky as well?”

Harry laughs at that, turning towards him, and oh, if he doesn’t have that same fond look Blair shoots him. “You never told me your team for this, by the way,” Harry says. “From every Quidditch match you’ve come to I’m guessing it’s the losing one.” 

“You know I only pretend to support your opponents to piss you off,” Nate says, nudging at Harry’s side. “The Rangers, I guess, but I don’t have strong feelings either way,” he says to answer Harry’s question. He gestures at the game in front of them, wincing when someone comes too close to the partition and smacks right into it, bouncing off. “The Spectator’s had a load of stories about hockey players recently -- figured I should check out the sources in person.”

“So you don’t even care about this?” Harry waves at the players blurring around the rink, the rhythmic thwacks of their sticks on the ice. “You’re here for the gossip.” 

Nate laughs at the incredulity in Harry’s tone. “I’m not a sports guy, man, what can I tell you? Hey, not Quidditch though, buddy, I love that, you know I do. Although, a big part of it is because it’s so weird seeing you do well at a sport, you know, given your appearance.” 

“Because of my glasses,” Harry says, and then he shoves at Nate’s shoulder. “I could beat you at this blind, Archibald, and this wouldn’t even be you playing against  _ Seeker Weekly _ ’s top Seeker of the season.” 

“Shut up and watch the game,” Nate retorts, throwing a ball of popcorn half-heartedly into Harry’s lap. “You can fill in my sports reporter after seeing as you know so much about it.” 

Harry waves a hand at this and then leaps up from his seat along with half the arena as the Rangers score. Nate slouches back in his seat and pulls out his phone. 

_Blair, your husband, the top seeker of the season, is embarrassing me_

I told you not to take him and you didn't listen to me  

_don't blame me for this. you're the one who married a jock_

harry's not a jock 

Nate can tell she's typing it as defensively as Harry said it. For two people who don't seem like they have that much in common it's freaky how similar they are.

 

.

  
  


ron.

 

Harry comes by most Sundays. Sometimes he comes alone, sometimes he brings Blair, sometimes he doesn’t come at all, when he has a match, or something to do in America. He and Ron and Hermione sit in the living room and relax -- half the time they sit in silence, content with each other’s company and other times they reminisce or they discuss work or they tease each other in ways only they know how. They all have their grown-up lives now but this is their time. 

“He’s running late,” Ron comments, eyeing the clock on the wall.

“Ten minutes isn’t late, Ron,” Hermione says. “Go and get me a glass of orange juice, will you?” 

Ron sighs, long and low. He gets to his feet. “Want something to eat?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll get something when Harry gets here.” 

“Could be waiting a long time, ‘Mione.”

“His life doesn’t revolve around us, Ron,” Hermione calls through to the kitchen. “You saw him yesterday.” 

“That was different,” Ron argues, aware of how petulant he sounds. “That was after his game -- he was preoccupied.” 

“You sound jealous, Ron.” Hermione takes the juice, takes a sip. “450-140. That’s a big reason to be a little preoccupied.”

“If the Tornados win this year it’ll be an all time record,” Ron says. “That’s a lot of pressure on Harry.” 

“I think he can handle it.” 

“He’ll have his work cut out for him if the Harpies advance to the final --” and he’s all ready to go into this in further detail when the fireplace lights up and Harry steps into the room. “Harry. Took your time.”

“Ron,” Hermione says. “Hi, Harry. How are you?” 

He looks preoccupied now -- half his attention focussed on the two of them, the other half back at home. “I’m great, Hermione,” he says, and he really sounds it. “How are you? How’s the baby?” 

Hermione runs a hand over her stomach. Ron resists the urge to lean over and touch as well. He’s always wanting to be near her, always anxious things are progressing as they should be. “Baby’s fine,” Hermione murmurs. “Hugo’s excited.”

“I can imagine,” Harry says, and he grins. “Not long now.” 

“George says we’ll all have enough for a Quidditch side soon,” Ron laughs, getting up to get Harry a drink.

Before he can step out of the room, though, Harry opens his mouth and lets out what he’s obviously been desperate to say since he got here. “We’ll have that side sooner than you think,” and Merlin, his smile is so big and he’s jiggling his leg and his eyes are full of the same feeling Ron had when he heard about with Hugo and again when they learned about the second one. How did he not spot it as soon as Harry entered the room?

“ _ Mate _ ,” he says, bounding over the coffee table and pulling Harry into a hug. He claps his hand on his shoulder, holds him there, and then pushes him away. “Congratulations.” 

Hermione’s struggling to get up off of the couch to join in the celebrations and so they go to her, both of them falling onto the couch beside her. She throws her arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him close, kissing his cheek. “I’m so happy for you, Harry. You should’ve brought Blair! Tell her congratulations will you? Oh, Harry!” 

“Thanks, Hermione.” He ducks his head, cheeks flushed. “Blair wanted to come but when I was leaving Serena dropped by so I left her to tell her the news. She says she’ll visit as soon as she can; I think she has a lot of questions.” 

“She’s welcome anytime -- just tell her to send an owl --- oh, no, email me.” Harry laughs at that -- Hermione’s the one raised by Muggles but she’s the one always getting confused in the switches between the worlds. “I’m staying at work for as long as I can but we can go for lunch.” 

“I’ll pass on the message.” 

At this promise Hermione declares that she’s needed the bathroom for half an hour and she can’t wait any longer. Ron and Harry help her up and ease her in the direction of the bathroom, obeying her dismissal.

“I’m happy for you, mate,” Ron says again. 

“Thanks, Ron. I know I said Blair has some questions but I do too.” 

Ron waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. Bill, George and Percy have given me all the guidance I’ll ever need on parenthood; I’m an expert now, and anyway, you’ve had Teddy to practice with.” 

“Teddy’s not a baby,” Harry points out.

“Harry,” Ron says seriously. “You know that Blair scares me sometimes? She’s great and I love her but she can be scary at times.” 

“I  _ knew _ you were scared of her,” Harry says, laughing. “She keeps telling me this and I had so much faith in you --” 

“Shut up, Harry. Hermione still scares me sometimes, it doesn't mean anything. Anyway, what I was saying was that Blair’s going to be great. She’s going to take all of that willpower and ambition and good-heartedness into raising this baby and you two are going to be great parents.” 

Harry nods at this, takes it all in. “If you tell her all of that she’ll be a lot nicer to you, you know.” 

“She’s nice to me at the moment,” Ron protests. “We’ve got a good thing going.” 

“I appreciate this, Ron,” Harry says, ignoring all of that. “I’m sorry to cut this short but we’re going to tell Teddy this afternoon so I need to go back and get Blair.”

“Come round after, okay? I’ll make dinner.”

“That’ll be great.” Hermione comes back at this moment so Harry gives her a quick hug, repeats everything he just told Ron, and says he’ll be back later. 

“I’m so happy for Harry, Ron,” Hermione sighs, dropping her head onto Ron’s shoulder. “His own family.” 

Ron’s eyes fall closed as he listens to Hermione’s breathing slow and she slumps against him. It can’t be five minutes before he feels a tiny hand tugging at his hand and he opens his eyes to see Hugo peering up at him.

“How did you get out of your cot, Hugo?” he whispers, carefully bending to lift him into his lap without dislodging Hermione. “Did you have a good nap?” 

Hugo mutters an affirmative and presses a sticky kiss to Ron’s cheek. Ron smiles and kisses the tiny tip of Hugo’s nose which results in Hugo giggling. Harry’s going to  _ love _ this. 

  
  


.

  
  


harry and blair.

 

Blair stretches in her sleep. She denies this, of course, but she starts the night in a ball in one side of the bed and by morning she’s taken over the whole mattress, her arms and legs landing wherever she reaches. 

Harry’s a very still sleeper. If he goes to sleep in one position, chances are he’ll wake up in that same place. Half the time he wakes up with Blair sprawled on top of him, her elbows digging into his chest, his stomach, any vulnerable part her subconscious can find. 

This morning he opens his eyes to find Blair’s hand on his cheek. Her hand is soft, nails short and painted a pale lilac. It’s a very pretty hand, there’s no denying that, but that doesn’t mean Harry wants it on his face. He lifts it and places it on his chest, a much more manageable position, but before he can let go he feels the tell-tale shift of Blair’s body, the tightening of her limbs as she pulls herself awake. 

“What are you doing, Harry?” she mumbles. 

“Moving your hand,” he whispers back. 

“Don’t do that.” Another lie Blair tells about her sleeping patterns is that she’s a morning person. Harry can very definitely say that she is not. She’s not awful, that’s fair, but she needs a few minutes before she’s fully functioning. “ _ Harry _ ,” she whines. “Why did you move my hand?” 

Harry shuffles a little closer to her. “It was on my face,” he says softly. “I didn’t want it there.” He runs his hand down her arm, pulls her gently against him. She rolls willingly, her arm coming up to hold his waist. 

“Harry,” she says, lips moving against his chest. “Guess what day it is.” 

“It’s our anniversary, Blair,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

“That’s right,” she mumbles and then she tilts her head a fraction and kisses his collarbone. “Happy Anniversary, Harry.” 

“Happy Anniversary, Blair. Do you know what your present is?” He waits a beat and then adds, “More sleep.”

“Love you,” she slurs, eyes closing again. “But I want a real present too.” 

Harry snorts at this and then he drops his arm around Blair and falls asleep. Five years is good. Five years is great. Five years of this is more than Harry could have ever asked for. He never asked for Blair or for Quidditch or for a baby on the way, he never thought to ask for it, but five years later, and here they are. 


End file.
